


and ill use you as a warning sign

by kovisk



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dissociation, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), ayyy back at it again with the angst, its all im good for guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 03:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12123315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kovisk/pseuds/kovisk
Summary: he's sleeping, he's sleeping. he's ok. mishka's ok.





	and ill use you as a warning sign

**Author's Note:**

> my old works are fucking awful, and are cringe worthy, which is why i deleted them ! and now im posting original pieces i've done, and while they're short they're hell of a lot better then my old pieces, do ask questions if you have any ! 
> 
> based on oc's me and my friends have created for an au we've set up with the good ol gang

It's cold, fingers numb, mouth burning. It's slick like rain and strong like whiskey, the maroon seeps between his fingers, and it's all he's ever wanted. It's not real of course, he'd  _never_ do such a thing. His reality would never want to murder, to rip the life, and pull apart tendons and bone. He'd never shove Misha against a wall, feel the pulse under his palm flutter wildly, like a birds wings, trapped in his hand. He'd never kill someone. He  _wouldn't_. He's determined only his subconscious could. That the blood on his palm isn't real, that the glazed eyes fixated on the ceiling aren't really  _there_. Mishka's alive, surely still asleep on the bed, tangled in sheets, curls wild. Not matted with blood, no,  _no_ , he's not dead. The pulse a silence under his shaking fingers. The mouth a soft blue, still, the lack of oxygen, painted pretty in a smear of red. A trace, a trickle down his chin, and spilling like ink on his throat, the force enough to have the ridges of his spine, piercing through his nape, as if it's paper. Porcelain, he'd always been so pale. Illuminated in soft light, but now he's sickly. He's  _sick_. Not  _dead_ , his subconscious supplies fruitlessly. He needs sleep,  _rest._ If he can't protect and care of Zelda, than he could at least provide it for Mishka. He leans down, and the aroma of copper is strong, whiskey strong. The bodies cold, he's sick, he's sick, he's  _sick_.  
  
The head lolls back with a crack and it's registered as nothing. It's a simple bone snapping back into place, cracking your knuckles is the same way. Would a head loll back that far, though? Yes,  _yes_ , it's natural, he's just _tired._ The room is cool, the hotel is quiet, the sounds are dull. He places the body in the sheets, he doesn't register the blood, the bones, the cold to the body.  _Sick_. He's okay. He's just  _sleeping_. He'll wake up. It's not  _real_. He stands by the bed, sways with fatigue. His hands hurt, ache, like the muscles have been strained. There's blood caked under his fingernails, on his palms. How long as it been? Minutes? Hours?  _Days_? He pulls over a blanket, he needs to stay warm. It's cold in the room. He strokes through the curls, sticky with blood, matted. There's an indent in the skull. Has it been smashed? Is he okay?  _Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping_. He's just  _sleeping_. He'll wake up soon.  
  
It's dusk and suddenly he doesn't think he's dreaming. There's an indent in the wall, it's caved in. His skull, his skull,  _his skull_. Sleeping. He's just tired. He's sick. He's not  _real_. What would Danae do? Let him sleep. They need sleep. They need rest to get better. The dead don't get better. But he's not  _dead_. It's a war, a torn battle between himself and his subconscious. He knows he's done something wrong. Why isn't Mishka here? Is he mad. (Is he  _dead_?) He must have done something. He does a lot of things. He's sad often. He drinks. He doesn't talk to Mishka anymore. Where is Mishka?  
  
_Sleeping_. Oh, that's right. He's sick. He's tired. He's not coming down because he's sick. His hands shake, they're smeared in blood, his fingers hurt, his palms burn when he closes them into fists. Was he sick? No, he's just sad. The door clicks, a knock. Mishka! He stumbles to open it, but it's Zelda. He's missed her, and when she hugs him, it's not cold. His hands are washed. When did he wash his hands? "Where's Mishka?" Her voice is tired, her voice is soft, she's soft. Her skin is soft, who else was soft? Mishka. Mishka was always soft. He's cold now. He's  _sick_. He's sleeping. Sleeping. Sleeping. Sleeping. "He's sleeping, he's sick." He closes the door, feels numb. Zelda nods. She's smart. Mishka's smart too right? Where's Mishka?   
  
Zelda smiles soft, and she sits in the kitchen. She's still summer beauty, and warm illumation. Who illuminated again? He can't remember. A boy. A boy? A man? No a  _boy._ Who was he thinking of?   
"What happened to the wall?" She looks curious, and smiles confused. He looks over his shoulder, there's an indent. There's no blood. "Mishka hit his head, he's sleeping." She looks at him, weary. Did he already say that? Who hit his head? Was it him? He touches his head, no. Not him. She smiles soft and touches his hand. He looks at her hand for a long time. She talks to him and he glances up sometimes. She talks soft, lulling him. He's okay. He's got Zelda back. Who was sick? Was it Zelda? No. It was, who? She looks at him, smiles again and. Oh.   
  
He blinks once. Twice. Three times. He feels cold, empty. His stomach feels empty. He feels hollow. Where's Mishka? His subconscious is unnervingly quiet. It doesn't supply him with anything. It's null. "Where's Mishka?" He asks, voice tight. He's cold. He's shaking. Whose Mishka? "You said he was sleeping. He's upstairs probably." Zelda says, she tilts her head. "Are you okay?" He doesn't nod, he stares at his hands. They ache, they burn. Whose sleeping?  _Mishka._ His subconscious whispers to him. "Dad," She peaks slowly, "have you been dissociating again? Do you forget whats dreams and whats reality." Reality. Dreams. Reality. Is Mishka sick in is head or in reality. Where is Mishka? He pushes the chair back fast enough that Zelda jumps. She looks a little in shock. Surprised. He thinks he apologizes but he doesn't know. He looks at the wall. It still has the indent. He looks at his hands. They're clean. What happened? Was it a  _dream_. Bird bones. Bird bones. Soft skin. Cherry? Cherry red. Maroon. What's maroon? What's cherry?   
  
He takes the stairs two at a time. The door is closed, he opens it slowly. Sleeping. Sleeping. Sleeping.  _Dead. Dead. Dead._ The sheets cover his face. His body. There are bloody splotches, spreading across the white sheets across his face. Zelda comes up quietly, touches his shoulder, he doesn't let her look in. He closes the door. Steps back. Sleeping? Sick? What did he  _do_? He feels sick. He wants to throw up. He wants to cry. What did he  _do_? "Where's Mishka, dad?" Her voice is soft, concerned. He stares at the hardwood, his palms burn. He feels his chest burn, sick sick sick. He's  _dead dead dead_. He swallows. Throat dry.  
  
"Sleeping. Mishka's sleeping." 


End file.
